


Eurydice

by cameliae



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Mythology References, no beta we die making mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameliae/pseuds/cameliae
Summary: "She said she tried to bring him back." Finally, Geralt focuses his tired eyes on her. "But she couldn't. Is that possible, Yen? ""Oh, Geralt. What a fool. No, that is not possible. The dead can't come back."Jaskier dies, and it's really not fair. Geralt knows that he should just accept it, but he just... can't.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 349





	Eurydice

The reception room is teeming with perfumed people, they're like waves made of flesh and bones that don't know where to go and just point their feet to the center of attention, or near the tables full of elven wine bottles with a sweet flavor and red like blood. Jaskier is there, among them, his lute squeezed between the calloused fingers and his full lips wide open by a particularly high note that his voice has managed to reach.

He sings as if it's his last show, dancing among the veils of the ladies who dance around him and dodging with an elegant step the beer-filled mugs of men who, unwary, move their arms following the music. Geralt just looks at him on the sidelines as always, without losing a single turn, blinking his eyes only when necessary so as not to have to remove them from the bright blue of Jaskier's clothes - _never lose sight of him, who knows what could happen otherwise_.

Jaskier takes a bow in the center of the room with one arm resting on his chest, his hand on his heart, then he moves the grip he has on the lute to the other hand and do the same with the other arm, enjoying every applause, every kiss thrown towards his direction and shakes his head, with a huge smile on his face, in a gesture of denial, when asked to sing another song. "Later, my beloved audience! Your bard must now regain his strength!" he screams to be heard even by those located further down the hall, and finally turns to the huge table behind him, where the birthday girl is still laughing, carefree, clapping her hands almost childishly. "The next ballad will be all yours, my dear little Duchess!"

Then he disappears into the crowd of people, and Geralt already knows that Jaskier has approached the nearest table and stolen an empty glass, filling it with the first bottle of wine he found on hand.

Geralt waits, because he knows that his, albeit short, pause also includes a few minutes spent in the corner that Geralt has conquered, far from anyone who could even try to have a conversation with him. The shouting of the people, at that point, diminished to a faint buzz, lost in their private discussions; the loudest voice is the one of the little Duchess in the center of the table, with the Duke and Duchess her parents on the sides, who scream happily to receive the gifts of gold and precious stones from the guests and perhaps future suitors.

"Geralt!" Jaskier approaches, making space between the crowd of people, the lute carefully in its case on the left shoulder and with the right hand occupied by a golden chalice filled almost to the brim with wine. His lips are already red, when he comes close enough to touch his chest with the tip of a finger. "Would you like a sip?"

"No. I've already drank enough. And I guess you need it more than me."

Jaskier responds to his half smile with a laugh, and his tongue passes quickly over his lips before speaking. Geralt pays full attention only to that gesture, not really interested in his chatter. "Ah, you guessed well, my dear Witcher. Obviously I have already took advantage profoundly of this very sweet wine, but it is never too much I would say, especially if you mean a wine of such value, and also completely _free_! These are in fact my favorite evenings: money in piles, wine in abundance, and maybe even a good fuck as a cherry on top. With you, if this wasn't clear right away."

Geralt grunts, "Not that you need evenings like this for that."

Jaskier drinks most of the contents in his glass in one sip, then absently places it on an empty tray in the hands of an attendant. With his hands finally free, he pushes Geralt to the back of the column where he has been resting for most of the evening and hides both from any prying eyes and from the warm lights of the room. Only the pale rays of the moon outside the window next to them illuminate Jaskier's oval face, his eyes wide and so blue it hurt to see, the red lips smelling of wine that stretch into a mischievous smile. Geralt can't take his eyes off him – like he couldn't for years now.

"But it's more exciting here, isn't it? I mean, the great and frightening Witcher Geralt of Rivia forced against a column by the favorite bard of the little Duchess, the birthday girl. What would people say, Geralt?"

"Do you think I care about people?"

Jaskier still smiles, and he doesn't stop doing it even when Geralt raises a hand and rests his thumb against his red, red, oh, _so_ red lips. He tries to remove the wine stains on them that shine thanks to the moonlight, but, really, he only wants an excuse to touch his mouth. "Mhh, I would say no. Maybe _I_ care a little, after all it _is_ thanks to them if I can define myself one of the most successful _trobadours_ , it is thanks to them if most of the times we can afford a comfortable bed and a hot meal. But I could challenge fate if you ask me to."

Geralt doesn't answer him. He watches how his lips move, how they do not change color even after whole minutes spent rubbing his finger against them. He observes how Jaskier half-opens his mouth and makes his tongue flicker out, licking his finger, giving him kisses on the fingertip – and always without closing his eyelids, without lowering his eyes, without feeling any embarrassment or fear in being discovered tempting the Witcher his companion.

"If you prefer, I can use my lips for something else." he finally says, without ceasing to smile captively, "I could, for example, close them around–"

Jaskier is interrupted by the medallion against Geralt's chest, which begins to vibrate. After just a few seconds, an explosion knocks down the right wall of the room and a woman with long, straight wheat-colored hair and aquamarine eyes - large, wide and _angry_ \- flies to the center of the room, her hands illuminated by tongues of purple fire.

She is a sorceress, Geralt thinks absently. She is a _dangerous_ sorceress, with rage that makes her sweet features ugly, with tears running down her scarlet cheeks, veins in her neck swollen with anger and effort. Geralt brings a hand to Jaskier's arm, who is stunned by the sound of the explosion, and pushes him with perhaps too little delicacy against the column to hide and secure him. "Stay here." he says, then tries to get closer to the sorceress, albeit slowly.

"You took him away from me!" she screams, throwing a fiery ball against the little Duchess' table. Both the young girl and her parents manage to avoid the blow by hiding under the rocks fallen from the ceiling, the little Duchess' cry is a sharp screech in Geralt's ears. "He was innocent and you hanged him! I'll kill you, I'll kill you, _I'll kill you_!"

Geralt doesn't really want to get involved. He would just like to take Jaskier away from here, to keep him safe, but the risk of him getting hurt is high with that uncontrolled magic in the air, and, paradoxically, the only way to stay safe for Jaskier is just to stay behind that column. Geralt however knows that he cannot rely too much on the bard's spirit of survival.

"With all this I will write an _epic_ ballad, Geralt!" he hears him scream behind him. Geralt glances quickly towards him and he is mostly still hidden behind the column, but he's also trying to get closer to look at the scene. "Epic, I tell you! What is that woman saying? I think the Duke executed the wrong person!"

"Jaskier, shut up and stay behind!"

The sorceress is shrouded in her magic, a strong pressure that makes everyone remain anchored in their place. The ceiling falls, people try to run away but they can't and some of them get trapped under the stones. The column where Jaskier is hidden trembles, but doesn't give in and probably Jaskier thinks it's not so safe to stay behind that, so he tries to get closer, _again_ , ignoring, _again_ , what he asked him to do.

"Jaskier! I told you to stay there! The further you are from her, the less chance you have of getting hit by a fucking stone on your head! "

"And miss you getting all hero and save the day? Never!"

Geralt growls, and takes the dagger that he has kept hidden in his boots all evening: he had to leave all his weapons in one of the guest rooms, and now he particularly regrets not having his sword with him.

"I will kill you all! All! You took him away from me and I will kill everything you love!"

"He was a thief! He deserved to end up on the gallows!" Geralt hears the Duke screaming from behind the overturned table, while his daughter at his side still shouts, crying, in her mother's arms.

"He was innocent, you whoreson! You just needed someone to take the blame, and now, now... now _I_ need someone to take revenge on!" the sorceress cries out, her high voice suffused only by the magic crackling around her. In one of her wide open hands a purple bubble appears which grows bigger and bigger, until it reaches the size of her head. With witty eyes, red with tears, she also tries to launch that blow against the Dukes.

Geralt has to stop her, and not because he cares about that family. He cares about Jaskier, who took him to that party. To Jaskier, what people think of him matters, Jaskier is not like Geralt; if another tragedy should happen because of him – and it doesn't matter if, this time, not by his hands, Witchers are the right scapegoats – the consequences would not fall only on Geralt's shoulders, now. On the other hand, he hears the screaming people asking for help, _help us Witcher_!

"Stop, damn it." he growls then, arriving a few meters from her.

"Step aside, Witcher." she replies, magnifying the bubble until it reaches the width of her shoulders, "Nobody asked for your services!"

"You're killing people who have nothing to do with it."

" _He_ also had nothing to do with it, yet they took him away from me anyway! It was in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like all of you! And you will all end up the same way! I tried... I tried to bring him back to me, to have him back, to leave the revenge behind me, but I couldn't make it, I wasn't strong enough... and I will make them _pay_! All of them!"

"Fuck." Geralt grits his teeth and finally manages to take her by the wrist. She loses her balance slightly and the purple bubble disappears from her hand. She screams, tries to free herself, but she is so blinded by anger that she can't do anything except curse everyone. "Stop it, it's not worth it."

She shows him her teeth and brings a hand to the one he has anchored on her wrist. Geralt feels a twinge and a heat burning his skin, but she's not strong enough to force him to let go. "It's not worth it? How do you know that, Witcher? Have you ever lost someone you love?"

Geralt doesn't answer. _No, not yet_.

He tugs her, and she seems to read his mind. Her aquamarine eyes move, insane, from his face to beyond his shoulders and Geralt knows, _he knows_ , that her gaze is on Jaskier.

Finally, the sorceress laughs. "Do you want to know how it feels, Witcher?"

Geralt isn't fast enough, he doesn't fully realize what that means right away. If only he had his sword with him instead of a thin dagger, he would have cut off her arm, that same arm that stretches out of his field of vision. Geralt turns around just in time to see Jaskier – still where he left him, with his lute close to his chest, with his blue eyes wide and frightened, with his lips still so red – bouncing off, hit by the force released by the sorceress' magic. Jaskier falls backwards, and his body smashes into the window, destroying it, making it a rain of a thousand splinters and he no longer sees him, disappeared into the night.

Geralt inhales, and there is the smell of blood in the air, the smell of fear, anxiety, sweat and madness, but Jaskier's smell, chamomile and resin, _is gone_.

"No." Geralt murmurs, and lets the sorceress go. "Jaskier!"

He absently hears the Duke screaming behind him, but Geralt doesn't stop looking at the broken window, expecting to see that fool emerge from the ruin of the terrace destroyed by the same explosion that hit him. He expects to see him stagger, one hand on his head and the other squeezed around his lute, checking that it hasn't broken in the impact, Geralt's name on his lips.

But Jaskier is not on that terrace, Jaskier is down. Jaskier has fallen down, accompanied by glass and magic. Geralt can't feel his smell anymore, can't hear his heartbeat. Geralt feels nothing.

He squeezes the dagger between his fingers, when the magic around him subsides. The ticking of thick heels echoes in the surreal silence of the ruined room – silence broken only by a thin, weak cry, and by nails scratching against the floor - and Geralt knows that the sorceress has obtained her revenge, that the Duke and his family died at her hand. He turns slowly to look at her, and now it's him, _now it is him_ , who has those bloodshot eyes.

"Now you know how it feels, Witcher. If I told you that it's not worth it, would you spare my life, knowing that I have unjustly put an end to the life of your loved one?"

The sorceress is in front of him, defenseless. At her feet, the body of the Duke and Duchess lie covered in stinking blood, a few steps away from them their daughter, still alive, crawls against the floor to get closer to her mother, leaving behind a macabre red and pungent trail.

Geralt feels his hands tremble, and in a moment the dagger sinks into the sorceress' tender chest. She doesn't seem surprised, and with a tremor in her voice she says: "As I thought, you are no different from me. Even you wouldn't be able to bring your lover back. Revenge is better, isn't it?"

But Geralt isn't listening anymore. Geralt sinks the dagger again and again in her chest, in her heart. The sorceress falls to the ground and Geralt still doesn't stop stabbing her, and she dies without lifting even a finger to defend herself, a blissful smile on her pale lips, a relaxed expression despite the blood dripping from her mouth along her chin. Geralt stabs her again, and again, and again, the only noise is only the slimy sound of blood and of the squelched flesh.

The sorceress' blood almost penetrated his skin, dirtied his hands and clothes, entered his nose and mouth, when Geralt reaches the place where Jaskier's body is. He is lying on the grass of the garden carefully cut not too long before, located behind the manor of that Duke whose name Geralt has not even bothered to discover – and now it's too late, there is no longer anyone to ask.

Jaskier has never been a man who can stay still, but somehow Geralt is amazed to see his stillness in death. Jaskier has always been annoying, restless, petulant and noisy. Even during the night, in his sleep, his fingers move as if they are still plucking the strings of his lute, he often mumbles words that are not always understandable, snores when it's hot and trembles when the fire of their camp is not enough to warm him. He knows it's stupid, but seeing his chest still and his steady hands abandoned by the sides of his head hurts even more than the absence of his heartbeat.

His knees give in when he comes beside him. He sinks into the damp, slimy soil, and perhaps watches him for hours; around his body lie the remains of the shreads, those that are not skewered in his flesh, the blood continues to flow from his wounds and his smashed head creating a red bed under him, redder than wine, redder than his lips – lips that now, slowly, they are turning grey. Geralt brings a hand between the mop of dark hair on his forehead, and his eyes – his eyes, his eyes, _his eyes_ – empty and wide open, only the shadow of the ocean blue that Geralt loves so much.

Geralt does not cry, he is not capable to. But they also say that Witchers are unable to love, and Geralt has shown everyone that they are wrong, so perhaps that emptiness he feels in his heart and that oppressive grasp in his throat mean something.

It means Jaskier would never sing or dance again. He would no longer play his lute, which now lies in pieces a few meters from them. He would no longer give Roach sugar cubes secretly, he would no longer stumble to run to him. He would no longer squeezes against his chest in search of heat and would no longer try to make him angry during some hunt. He would no longer cast curses against Valdo Marx and would no longer kiss Cirilla's frown, or make strange faces behind Yennefer.

 _He sings as if it's his last show_.

That was really Jaskier's last show.

The cemetery where Jaskier lies is neither gloomy nor gray. It's not cold and there isn't even a faint fog between gravestones. That cemetery, in Oxenfurt, paradoxically is full of life: next to Jaskier's grave lives a weeping willow, and its weighted leaves touch his stone like a loving caress, like a daily greeting. Around the dull earth, still fresh, small daisies and wild flowers blooms around it – and everything is perfect, everything is as it should be, but it is still not good because Jaskier is no longer _here_.

Not many people came during the funeral. Jaskier is – _was_ – one of the continent's most beloved bards, but in the end no one has ever cared about his life. Valdo Marx stopped only for a few seconds, the time to throw a yellow rose on the stone, then left with an expression half bored and half what should have been remorse. Zoltan instead stopped for half an hour and murmured words that Geralt did not want to listen to, he sniffed a few times, then left. Leaving the cemetery, he gave Geralt a violent pat on the arm. Now there is Ciri in front of the grave, Triss at her side, and Geralt, leaning softly against a tree not too far from them, just stares at her, listening her restrained sobs and watching her thin shoulders tremble.

Yennefer is silent next to him. "Ciri wanted to give him one last goodbye." it's the only thing she said, as if to justify her presence. Geralt really doesn't care why she's here.

After endless minutes, Yennefer sighs. "Despite everything, Geralt, I never hated Jaskier." she whispers softly, "Sure, I felt resentment towards him, and I still don't understand how you preferred him to _me_ , but... he was difficult to hate him."

Geralt's only reaction to those words is to close his eyes, squeeze them for a few seconds, and nothing else. He reopens them only to bring them back to Ciri.

"Geralt." Yennefer approaches, puts a gentle hand on the same spot where a few hours earlier Zoltan gave him that useless encouraging pat, "Jaskier was human. It would have happened sooner or later."

"It was too _soon_." he merely answers her, gritting his teeth. He isn't angry with Yennefer, Yennefer is right, but he _is_ angry at Destiny, who decided to take him away too soon, unnecessarily, foolishly. It is unfair. Jaskier did not die sweetly in a bed, with the signs of age on his face, with Geralt holding his hand; Jaskier died and it was not anyone's fault but Destiny's. And _his_.

He doesn't see it, because he isn't looking at her, but Geralt knows that Yennefer has lowered her violet eyes. Silence falls again, and Geralt hears Ciri muttering something in a low voice, with broken and tearful whispers. It's overwhelming, Geralt is no longer used to hearing useless noises besides Jaskier's constant chattering, but Jaskier has been gone for three days now, and Geralt has endured that emptiness around him for three days, waiting for his break.

"Did you know that sorceress?" Geralt asks at some point.

"Not personally. I don't even know what her name was, if that's what you want to know. She was much older than I, and had no contact with the Brotherhood way before I become part of it. What little I know, she lived hidden with a human, but I fear it was the one who was killed."

"She said she tried to bring him back." Finally, Geralt focuses his tired eyes on her. "But she couldn't. Is that possible, Yen?"

"Oh, Geralt. What a fool. No, that is not possible. The dead can't come back."

He looks back to Ciri. He bites his cheek, feeling the taste of blood invades his mouth, trying not to scream. Not that he really hoped for it, but... fuck, yes, he _actually_ hoped for it, and Yennefer's condescending tone only makes him even more furious against himself and his weakness – that weakness that now lies in a wooden coffin five meters underground.

"Unless she meant _that story_. If that was the case, I understand why she couldn't." Yennefer snaps her tongue against the palate and tightens her arms under her breast. "They tell it to those poor and naive sorceresses who still mourn for their lost love, those romantic fools who still hope to see the fragile humans who have crawled at their feet throughout their short and miserable life. I'm serious, Geralt, it's just a fairy tale, and in any case no one who has tried has ever returned to confirm its truthfulness."

"Except for that sorceress."

Yennefer nods, unwillingly. “Except for her, yes. Always if that's what she tried, which I really doubt. And in any case, she didn't manage to do it anyway, so it's silly of you to even think of it as a possibility."

Geralt takes a deep breath. "What's the story, Yen?"

"Do you really want to know?" she asks, amazed. "Seriously? Ah, Geralt, you are a fool who cannot even surrender to the inevitable. I don't know if it's a negative side of yours or not. In any case, it's just a rumor, believe me: among the sorceress there's this legend, if you can call it like that, about the existence in the Underworld of this benevolent Goddess, which allows those with a broken heart to bring back to the world of the living their loved one. Nobody knows what she wants in return though: as I said, nobody has ever gone that far and then come back to tell the world."

"And I should go to Hell to meet this Goddess?"

"Only beyond the Edge of the World. They say that the descent to the Underworld is there. But, Geralt," Yennefer puts her hand on his arm again, squeezes it and sinks her sharp nails into his flesh. A _warning_. Geralt has learned to follow her warnings, they always proved to be the right thing to do. "Desist. The dead cannot be brought back to life. You can't go against Destiny, you should know that by now."

Geralt then moves from the tree on which he is leaning and turns his back on Yennefer, who releases her grip on him. Without saying anything, he leaves, without even bothering to say goodbye to Cirilla.

Yennefer's voice reaches him when he is now far enough from the cemetery entrance. "Where are you going, Geralt?" she yell. In her tone, now, there is an almost invisible hint of concern.

"I have a contract." he replies in a low voice, knowing however that she can hear him as much as he can. And that's what he will do for the rest of his useless and infinite life: he will continue to work, he will continue to kill monsters, he will continue to save the wrong lives and get nothing in return if not a few coins. He will continue to do what he always do, only without Jaskier's voice to accompany him.

⸸

The Path is rich, luxuriant, green and alive just as it is in him memory, even after all those years. Although he promised himself not to screw up, _not to try_ , Roach and his own legs took him right to the gates of the Elven kingdom almost without even realizing it. The cities all seemed to have the same grayness, all imbued with that nauseating smell, smeared with piss and death in the darkest corners; the forests seemed all dark and cold, infested with screaming and cursed beings – Geralt has always been ready to take head off to all of them, finding in that a distraction that seemed like a blessing. The faces of the people, innkeepers, mayors and gentlemen who asked for his services seemed one the copy of the other, lackluster and proud, poor even with the coins that come out of any of their holes.

Geralt is tired, he hasn't slept in months. Jaskier's ghost arrives at his bedside every night and asks him to sleep, tells him that he is there with him and that he will watch him as he sleeps, but Geralt does not feel his smell, he can never hear the calm beat of his heart and he knows then that Jaskier is not there but he is only in his head. So he doesn't sleep, he can't, because he doesn't feel Jaskier's calloused fingers in his hair.

As soon as they see him approach with Roach, the Elves are aiming at him with their bows and are ready to fire a thousand arrows. It that moment, he would stop them only because he does not want his horse to die together with him, but their King do it in his place with a single dry wave of his hand. Despite the years, Filavandrel seems to recognize him and welcomes him with a frown halfway between the threatening and confused, ethereal in the scorching sun and with his boots dirty with dry soil.

"You are the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. I remember you." he says, as soon as Geralt manages to get close enough. Filavandrel glances cautiously at his swords, at Roach and at the baggage the horse is carrying. "I'm pretty sure no satyr has been working for us lately. Your presence here is incomprehensible to me."

"I'm not here for you, and I don't care what you do and who you work with." Geralt gets off Roach's back and takes his reins in his hand. "I just want to get through." he says, his hoarse voice and his throat burning after months of silence.

"To get through? To go where? There is nothing beyond the Edge." Filavandrel leans his head slightly to the side, and his blond hair bounces down his face. With one hand, the Elf carries the strands behind his pointed ears. "Unless you're one of those who follow that little story about the entrance to the Underworld. You're not the first and, alas, you're not even the last."

Geralt unties the case of Jaskier's lute, which he tied together with the rest of his things to Roach's saddle, and remains for a few seconds only with the broken instrument in his hands. "Is it important where I want to go? I just wanna get through." repeats. Then he hands the lute to the Elf, with a sweetness he never knew he could have, and Filavandrel takes it almost automatically, more amazed than anything else. "I didn't find anyone who managed to fix it. Can you do it?"

"Ah. I understand. You're here for that story, after all. I'm sorry for your bard, Witcher, but I can confirm that no human being who has crossed the Edge of the World has ever come back."

Geralt doesn't answer, just waiting for Filavandrel to nod, a little uneasy under his expressionless gaze, probably. He sees him handing the lute to an Elf with long black hair at his side, murmuring: "We created this instrument, it's normal you haven't found anyone able to fix it. It is only in our abilities after all."

They let him pass shortly after, opening the way for him.

It is impossible to go the wrong way, beyond the Edge.

Geralt has never heard any stories about it, but the Path seems to burn, the magic in the air pinches the bare skin of his face and neck. It doesn't matter which road he chooses, it doesn't matter if at a crossroads he decides to go right instead of left, the roads are all the same and all lead to the same way.

Yennefer called it the descent of the Underworld, but he expected dangerous, steep paths full of fierce animals and monsters, with traps at every corner. Instead when Geralt reaches a cave, from which comes the smell of sulfur and the sound of flowing water, he realizes that there is nothing else around him except the green vegetation.

He doesn't feel calm though, despite that apparent calm. He feels it was for the better leaving Roach with the Elves – if it is a descent, on the other hand, a horse would have been of little use – and he draws his sword, being careful. He enters the cave and feels cold. There is damp on the stone walls, strangely bluish, and the way is not marked but it is like the Path: it is impossible to go the wrong way with that magic that caresses his skin almost gently.

And indeed, there is a descent. It's slippery, the stones are polished as if they had been worked with care not so much time ago, but Geralt still doesn't let go of his sword, not feeling safe – he can't let his guard down right now that Jaskier seems a bit closer. Geralt slips once, twice, three times, before deciding to slow down his pace, looking for a better grip on the smooth rocks with his sweaty hands.

When he comes to the end of the descent, hours seem to have passed. A path similar to the entrance of the cave follows, and the sound of flowing water gets closer and closer, the air more and more humid.

As expected, after a few meters a large river appears in front of Geralt. His medallion has always remained motionless against his chest, despite the dense magic in the air, and his senses cannot capture anything threatening - but considering the reaction of his own medallion, he does not trust to sheathe his sword. He looks around, cautiously approaching the river bank – there is no one, no living soul, there are no fish in the water, nor animals hidden in the dark corners.

He sighs, already resigned to jump into the water and swim to the other side, but as soon as he tries to finally sheathe his sword, a man aboard a wooden boat approaches him, sailing slowly on the peaceful river. Knowing that he will have to ask for permission to cross that river and reach the divinity that would allow him to bring Jaskier back, a bit like he did with the Elves, he waits until the man arrives near him, just a few meters away.

Geralt cannot see his face well. It stinks of sulfur, the same smell that accompanied him throughout the descent comes stronger and spicier; he wears a thick black cloak that covers most of his curved figure. He looks like an old man, from how tired he leans against the long oar he used to navigate and how he mumbles for no reason. "The living cannot cross this river." he says in a hoarse voice.

This means that, at least, he is actually in the right place. "I don't want to cross it. I just want to bring a person back."

"I already thought you were here for this reason, otherwise you wouldn't have been able to reach this place. Wasted time, I tell you. Since ancient times, no one has ever succeeded and they all died like flies, without even getting what they sought in death." Geralt watches him as he spits on one hand and then wipes himself against the cloak, "Go back, young man, I have a lot of work to do."

"I didn't come all the way here to leave then without Jaskier." Geralt growls, clenching his fingers around his sword, and he is not even surprised when he sees the old man not even make a turn, "Tell me what to do, then let me go to him."

"I have already told you that it is useless, you will fail just as all those who came before you. And I already have too many things to do lately, the dead don't take breaks and I certainly don't want to work more just because you are a fool who wants to go against his already written Destiny."

"Fuck." he growls again, "I'm _begging_."

He wouldn't go back without Jaskier. He traveled for months, enduring his ghost, enduring solitude, enduring _silence_ only because, in his heart, he always knew he would find himself in front of any God, any Goddess, _anyone_ to get him back. And now that he is so close, so much that he can – perhaps deluding himself – smell a little of his chamomile perfume, he would not give up. Fuck Destiny; the only things it brought into his life to lighten his existence were Jaskier and Ciri, and it even dared to take away _his_ bard ahead of time. He does not accept it. He never accepted it, since he saw him lifeless, lying on that lawn, with broken bones and immobile eyes. He will _never_ accept it.

Geralt is ready to make his way by using force, although he knows how stupid a solution it is, but a slow, sweet voice, with punctuated words like those of a mother who speaks to a restless child interrupts any idiocy he was about to do. "That's enough. Charon, be nice, go get Julian."

The old man bows, pointing even more the hump on his back, then slowly returns to row, disappearing in the dark. "As you wish, my lady."

The woman seems to be walking on the water, each step is a circle around her foot and it is the only thing that disturbs the tranquility of that river. Geralt sighs, having held his breath as soon as Jaskier's name came out of those thin and rosy lips, the same color as rosebuds. She walks and approaches him, without hesitating, without being afraid of his sword, still clenched in his fist, and his yellow eyes: she has white clothes, wet just on the brim, her frizzy and black hair decorated with a thousand flowers of a thousand colors, intertwined among the rebel curls.

She is the benevolent Goddess of Yennefer's story, Geralt has no doubts about this, he doesn't need to see the ethereal aura around her or the feeling of being in front of something bigger than him and more powerful than any being he has ever met to be sure of it. Geralt does not bow, does not sheathe his sword, just looks at her in silence until she gives him a smile.

"You are Geralt. Julian sings your praises all the time. "

Geralt grits his teeth, but doesn't answer. Julian, Julian, _Jaskier_.

The woman seems to dance, barefoot, while still taking steps towards him. "You're not one that speaks a lot, Julian said that too. I will not bore you further, I already know why you are here. I will not try to convince you to give up as poor Charon did – on the other hand, he always works, poor man – but I will at least try to warn you. You will be able to bring Julian back to your world, but only on _one_ condition: if you fail, Julian will come back to me, and you will be condemned to eternal oblivion, without the possibility, even in death, of being with him. Julian, after all, is a good soul, and whoever goes against what Destiny decides, failing, does not deserve to get what he seeks."

"It does not matter. I will do anything, I will not fail." Geralt lowers his eyes, and he doesn't even know why he feels the need to do that, "I wouldn't have spent eternity with him anyway, I'm not a good soul."

She smiles a little more warmly at him, after she hears his words.

"What should I do?" he finally asks, through gritted teeth.

"It's very simple: you will only have to accompany Julian along the path you have just walked, without, however, _ever_ turning to look at him. You mustn't try to make sure that Julian is really behind you, nor if he is really following you, you mustn't rest your eyes on him. He will speak to you, sing, ask you to look at him, seek explanations, but you must not waver until the sunlight wet your faces."

"I have to just _ignore_ him." Damn. Geralt, though he has tried many times in the past, has never been good at ignoring Jaskier.

"In a sense. You can talk to him, if that's what you want, even if it will make it more difficult not to follow the temptation to turn and look."

"Mh."

"You are still in time to go back on your own."

Geralt stares straight into her eyes, and they are black, as black as her hair around her beautiful face, "Didn't you say you wouldn't try to convince me to give up?"

"True, but I hate to see you all fall one after the other. This was not what I wanted when I fulfilled this desire for the first time. But I guess it's too difficult not to see your loved one, lost too quickly, when they are only a few steps behind." The features of her face, at this point, soften and Geralt feels it, _feels it_ , the smell of Jaskier, closer and closer. His heartbeat, usually always too slow, starts to accelerate like never happened before – is it fear? Anxiety, expectation maybe? "Now turn your back on the river and start walking the road you just crossed: Julian will be behind you. You can't look the dead in the eyes."

Just then, Geralt sheathes his sword. He turns away from her, murmuring an almost non-existent "Thank you." which, however, does not come out as it should, because his throat is dry and closed in a knot, his mouth kneaded and with an acid taste.

He begins to walk slowly – he doesn't want Jaskier to lose sight of him as soon as he begins to follow him – with his eyes fixed on the bluish stones of the cave, his hands slippery on them, his senses alert waiting for a noise, whatever noise that breaks the silence that has been haunting him for months.

Footsteps. Slow and hesitant. "Geralt?"

Geralt holds his breath. He stops, for a few seconds – and he feels it, the desire to turn and look at him, because that is his _voice_ , that is his smell, and Geralt also wants to feel the warmth of his skin against his, fingers between his hair, the broad smile on his red lips.

"Geralt, what's going on? Everything is alright? Can you look at me, you oaf? Because it's not exactly the best to continue arguing with your back, even if I guess it doesn't make so much difference to you. Oh, you don't even grunt? "

He doesn't answer. Geralt begins to climb, always slowly, careful not to miss even the slightest sound from Jaskier – and, oh, how he missed his complaints, his quick talk, and Geralt can see, as soon as he closes his eyes, his typical pout, the one that puts his lips down every time Geralt does something that annoys him, like ignoring him or like not fully appreciate one of his songs.

"Geralt." His tone is now strangely serious. "What have you done? I don't understand, and you know I hate to not understand. Why are you here? Where are we going? I– Geralt, I don't know what you did, but I swear to Melitele that if you put yourself in danger because of me, I will compose such an embarrassing ballad about you that even the monsters will no longer be able to look you in the face without bursting out laughing! "

For the first time since that damned reception, the corners of Geralt's mouth pull in a slight smile. He continues not to answer, focusing only on the climb, thinking that the blue shades of the stones are the same shade of blue as Jaskier's eyes.

"Oh, come on! Can you at least answer me? It's the least you can do! How long are you going to ignore me?"

"You have no idea how difficult it is." he murmurs softly, hoping that Jaskier has not been able to hear him, because he prefers not to talk to him, he prefers to still consider him as that ghost in his bed at night.

"Ah-ha! Then you can hear me and you are _deliberately_ ignoring me! Oh ohoh, what a motherf–" 

Jaskier stops, and the sound of shattering rocks reaches his ears.

He hears a curse, then: "Geralt, I don't think I can keep up with you..." Jaskier gasps, and more rocks fall behind him. "You know that climbing is not really my forte, can't we... stop for a bit? I think I also sprained my ankle. I'm not asking you to pick me up and with all your virile strength carry me up to, well, wherever we are going, but I would dare to say that it is exactly the thing you _should_ do. Geralt, I, really, I can't keep going like this..."

His whole being pushes him to stop again, turn around, squeeze Jaskier to his chest and quickly take him out of that place, safe, away from anything that reminded them of his death. But he knows that's a way to make him fail, and Geralt can't afford to fail and lose Jaskier again, not when they're so close to the end...

Then Geralt bites his tongue, the inside of his cheek, until he feels the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth – and continues, does not stop, continues to climb even when he no longer hears anyone behind him, goes up a step after another even when Jaskier's smell seems to disappear along with his shortness of breath and his uninterrupted chatter.

He reaches the top with his lips battered, and he knows he has to hurry because otherwise he will not be able to endure that suffocating silence, that not knowing, that not seeing him again. He sees the entrance to the cave, sees the sun peeking through the trees and is so close, he increases his pace almost until he runs. He can't fail now, he doesn't have to turn around, but he just hopes that once he passes the entrance of that cave Jaskier is really behind him, otherwise he would have gone back again and, this time, he would have pierced all of them, Gods and not, and he would have gone to look for him alone even in Hell.

The sun is as high in the sky as it left it; does not seem to have moved. It's warm, the air is humid and the soil dry despite the rich vegetation around him. It kisses his face, and it's a warmth that Geralt doesn't feel. He does not feel anything until he falls with his knees on the ground, tired as it has not happened for a lifetime now – and he feels shy arms tighten around his hips, hands closing on his chest, and a face sinking against his back. It's a hug – a hug that Geralt desired so _much_.

"Can I look at you now?" he asks, in a hoarse whisper.

Jaskier sniffs, then nods. And since he can't keep quiet – and Geralt is so grateful that he can't, neither now, nor ever – he says, in a tearful voice: "Of course you can, you silly, brute, rude, _romantic_ oaf."

⸸

Jaskier's eyes are blue, blue, a blue so clear that the ocean is envious of them.

Geralt has never been good at words, but the first thing he sees as soon as he turns are those eyes – eyes that for far too long months have been too empty, too dull, only the distant memory of those he finds now – and all he would like to do now is to gather the worst compliments from his own songs and dedicate them to him. They are wet, but no tears fall on his cheeks, and Geralt brings his hands on his neck, in a light caress and enjoys his mad heartbeat against his fingers.

Swallowing, Geralt lays him on his back on the dry soil and sinks his face into his neck, inhaling deeply, impressing his smell on his mind – not wanting to feel anything but chamomile and resin for the rest of his miserable existence.

He wanders his hands over his arms, his face, his chest and his belly. He caresses his legs wrapped in that same detestable bright blue suit and tightens his hips.

"Woah," he hears him panting, and his lips lean against the tip of his ear, "I'm also very, _very_ happy to see you, I'm serious and– oh, Geralt, I feel your hands _everywhere_ except where I really want to, but I understand that it is not exactly the right place and time for this. Why aren't you asking me to shut up? It's not like you, and you know I'm feeling too much right now and I'm not able to close my mouth even if I wanted to."

"Because I missed this."

"This what? My body? Well, I can undestand your need, my body _is_ fantastic."

Geralt smiles, stroking his neck with his lips and enjoying his giggle caused by his beard, making him ticklish. "No. I missed your voice, your constant babbling. There was too much silence before."

"Oh. _Geralt_. " And finally they arrive, his fingers, long and calloused for too many hours spent plucking the strings of his lute, in his hair; they tighten the silver locks and caress the back of his neck, "You'll have to... help me remember some things, because I'm rather confused, but..." Those fingers then pass over his face and gently press on his chin, and Geralt finds himself looking back into those blue eyes, with his fingers resting on his lips, "But it's all right now, isn't it? Believe me, I'm not going to be silent and I feel I haven't sung for far too long, and I absolutely have to recover my voice."

Geralt kisses his lips – which are red again, red more than wine –, not to silence him, but because he can no longer resist. Jaskier seems to melt beneath him, with his hands gripping his face and his legs twisted around his waist. He reopens the small wounds, already almost healed, that he got earlier with small bites, but not even the slight taste of blood can distract him from that kiss – that desired kiss, that kiss which is yet another demonstration that Jaskier is here with him, _he is alive_ , it is no longer under five meters underground somewhere in the Continent.

"Geralt." Jaskier gasps, but he doesn't stay far enough to make him breathe more than he needs.

"Mh?"

"Now that I think about it –nh, don't distract me! Now that I think about it, do you know what happened to my lute? I swear to Melitele that if something happened to my only love–"

"It's fine."

"Oh well, we can continue then. And, oh, wait!"

"What?"

Jaskier smiles, and it is that captivating smile that Geralt remembers, and that he loves with all his being and that he will want to see every day until the very end – and no, he does not allow himself the luxury of thinking that, one day, he will see his eyes shut and still again. Now it doesn't matter, except that he's here in his arms.

"I'll write an _epic_ ballad about all of this."

Geralt kisses him again.

"I'm sure you'll do."

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's my birthday and I really wanted to write something about this two, my latest obsession. As always, I hope it's not written too horribly, and I know it shouldn't be an excuse but I'm not a mothertongue so, yeah, that's why. I really hope that some of you will like this little baby, I tries my very best!


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